


The Potter’s Price

by BlueSimplicity



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternative Universe - Magic, Camelot, Freeform, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Reincarnation, pottery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 17:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimplicity/pseuds/BlueSimplicity
Summary: In Camelot, there is a shop that few know about. It is there the Potter works. Those who know about it can sometimes find the right item, that can provide them with just the thing they need. But the Potter always charges them a price.Until one day, the head of the Knights enters his shop, and demands an item whose price may be too steep for even Merlin to pay.





	The Potter’s Price

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for Carole, who after reading all of my stories, sent me a link of a potter working and said "write me something." So I did. 
> 
> This one's for you. Thank you for everything. Love you lady.

**The Potter’s Price**

 

 

It is a small shop, down a small street, where few ever travel. Yet if you are the right person, or the right person knows just how to look, then it is easy to find. No one knows exactly how long it has been there, although they know that it hasn’t been there long. It’s just one of those things, like so many other things that live and breathe in Camelot, that just _is_.

 

It is called _Pieces_. And if one walks through the wide glass door, they will find a brightly lit room, filled with shelves. On these shelves, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, although no one has ever been able to count, are the results of a life’s work. Vases and cups and plates. Bowls and jugs and tea sets. Platters and frames and even an urn or two. Each one unique, and all hand crafted, with necks that resemble the curve of a lover’s shoulder, a handle that remembers a mother’s palm pressed to a cheek, a lip as soft as a last kiss. Some smooth and flowing, others crooked and rough, and yet they each offer something to the viewer that they have never seen before, but remember within their heart.

 

And yet, it is not their forms that traps the eye or steals the breath. It is their colours. Glazes of swirling violets, burning oranges, blistering yellows. Cool, soft greens, quiet, deep browns, misty, dream kissed silvers. Waves and swirls, streaks and slashes, flows and whorls that shimmer and sigh, and hold within them the scent of that lover’s neck, the warmth of that mother’s hand, the breath of that one, final kiss. Visitors can spend hours just looking, their eyes making the slow journey from piece to piece, while in hushed voices they _ooh_ and _ah_ , until they make their choice (and they always eventually make a choice) and turn from visitor to customer.

 

But it is not this room, with all of its treasures, that is the heart of the shop.

 

There is a second room, behind a curtain of pale lilac silk. Few who find the shop even know of its existence. And even fewer of those who know dare to step inside.

 

And it is here the Potter works.

 

***

 

“Take a deep breath boy,” his Mistress tells him, standing over his shoulder as he sits in front of the spinner, wetting his hands before he throws the clay. “Take a deep breath, from down here,” and she presses her fist into his stomach, where his muscles clench and then release, “and use it all. Then let go, close your eyes and _Look_. Let the clay show you what’s inside. What it is. Feel it in your hands, in your fingers. And then let it go. The magic will do the rest.”

 

It was in the middle of his apprenticeship. Almost two years since he first showed up on her doorstep. He had too much magic within him to control. And nowhere else to go. She had taken him in and taught him her craft, gave him the keys to his art. With her scarred hands, hissed instructions and sharp words, she had helped him to shape his skills, just like the clay he is about to cup in his hands, until it found a form that suited her, that suited them both.

 

He leans back, for just a second, rubbing at the spot on his stomach where her hand had been. It doesn’t hurt. She never hurts him. But she doesn’t need to. She has her words and her lessons, and they have always been more than enough.

 

So he takes a deep breath, lets it go, closes his eyes, and leans forward. And then he begins to work.

 

***

 

It is in this second room, hidden from the view of most, that the Potter sits and works while he waits. The pieces here are all unglazed, and they each wait with him for the right person to walk through that curtained door.

 

Last week it was a woman, still mourning the stillborn child she lost a year ago. Her hand had paused over a small bowl, just big enough for a child’s serving of applesauce.

 

The week before that, it was a man who still suffered nightmares from a war, even though it was over ten years ago that he served on the battle lines. His stare had been captured by a mug, the perfect size for a cup of coffee when sleep was now the new enemy he fears.

 

Today it is a young woman, with long curly brown hair. She looks and looks and looks, seeking, until her eyes settle on a platter, just the right size for a meal to be shared. She has a decision to make, he knows as he watches her, a choice she is struggling with. There is a man, who makes her heart race and her body clench. But there is also a woman, whose mind challenges her own and makes her blood burn. And she does not know who to choose. So she has come here, for help, for guidance, and just a little bit of magic, to aid her on her way.

 

“You are the Potter, yes?” she asks, after she has made her selection.

 

“Yes,” he tells her gently, rising from his bench, where he has been dusting the ash from his latest work. He is always gentle with those who walk through this second door. They have come to him because of his craft, and he knows the answers they receive will not always be the ones they want. Truth and healing and guidance can sometimes be an ugly thing, and he wants to ease the way. So he is gentle. Always gentle.

 

“My friend told me about you. She was having some problems, but then she came here and she picked a vase. And she said – she said it helped.” She is polite and unsure, but not afraid. Brave in spite of her indecision, and he likes her for that alone.

 

For she is his favourite type of client. The ones who come not looking for healing or an end to pain, although he always tries to do his best for them. But for love. That is the easiest gift for him to give, even if oftentimes it is not in the way his client hopes. But he still loves giving it, because the world is often a harsh and brutal place, and it needs more happy endings. And love is such a simple thing to give. It waits, like nothing else, to give itself.

 

“I try.” He tells her, cocking his head toward the platter she has been hovering over. “Is this the piece you’re interested in?”

 

“Yes,” she says, glancing back at it. “I think so. There’s just something about it. It keeps – it keeps calling to me, I suppose you could say.” He nods at this, because it is the answer he is looking for.

 

“Right then,” he says, carefully pulling the platter from the shelf and carrying it over to the counter where he will give it a last inspection for any faults or imperfections before he starts to layer it in glazes.

 

“What do we do now?” she asks. She is not forceful, not demanding, as she follows him to the hearth of where he works. Many would have hesitated, have hesitated, but she is brave, and he likes that about her too.

 

“Now you have to give me something,” he tells her, as he carefully studies the swoops and swirls of the platter. It is all smooth lines and soft curls, much like her own hair. It suits her, he thinks as he looks it over. “But something only you can give. That’s how it works.”

 

Some of his clients have offered him money at this point, or even promises of fame and renown, if his work gives them what they want. As if he ever had a need for such things. But the smart ones, the intuitive ones, know better. It can be a small thing, something worthless to most, but it has to be generous. And it has to be given freely.

 

She looks at him, studying him and the platter very carefully, before she leans in and gently places a kiss to its unglazed surface. _Ah_ , he thinks fondly, _she is one of the latter ones._ His magic will definitely do well by her. So he smiles.

 

“Well done,” he says with an approving nod.

 

“That’s it?” She asks.

 

“That’s all I need.” He answers. “Now I’ll glaze it and put it back into the kiln. Give me seven days, and then come back. It will be ready for you by then Gwen.”

 

If she is surprised by the fact that he knows her name, she doesn’t show it. She merely nods, smiles warmly at him one last time, and then turns and leaves the shop.

 

And the Potter goes to work. She has given him a great gift, and it is time for him to repay her in kind.

 

***

 

His Mistress is white. Skin paler than moonlight, long hair as blanched as bone, nails the colour of ice. She wears a white dress as she watches him, and white heels that click against the floor as she paces while he works. White, white, white.

 

It is the last year of his apprenticeship, and he is sitting over his wheel, throwing a goblet from which a newly married couple will take their first sip of life together. His hands are steady and his fingers deft as the clay opens beneath his touch. It will be a beautiful piece when it is done, and he is proud of his work. One of many, he hopes, as he sits and molds and imagines the goblet that he wishes to one day make for his own wedding.

 

But then, just like that, the goblet collapses in his hands. And he is shocked, because that has not happened to him in a long time. Years. Not since he first started studying under his Mistress with hands that were heavy and untrained.

 

“Tch,” she hisses at him as he sits back and stares at his failure. “What happened boy?”

 

“I – I don’t know,” he says, confused. “I was spinning and it was there, I had it, and then it just…Just collapsed in my hands.”

 

“And were you _Looking?_ ” She has come around to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to study the lopsided lump of clay on the wheel.

 

“Yes,” he says, feeling strangely forlorn.

 

“And what did it show you?” she asks. She is no longer looking at the clay, but at him. He feels his shoulders rise and a blush on his cheeks, because even though she is staring at him, he knows she is _Looking_ , letting the magic fill her vision, when she has never done that before, not since the first time when he showed up at her doorstep, tired and hungry and needing a place to just _be_.

 

“Tch,” she says again, and her voice is filled with disappointment and ridicule. “Thinking about your own wedding, were you?” He feels his cheeks burn even hotter, because she knows, even though he never said. “And what did I tell you about that boy? What was the first lesson, when you showed up at my door all of those years ago?” Her hand is on the back of his neck now, cool against skin that is flushed with shame. When he doesn’t answer, she tightens her grip. But her voice is soft and gentle when she goes on, reminding him of that first lesson, so bitter and sharp the words still cut his tongue.

 

“It is not for us,” she repeats. “Never for us. We are the doorway, not the vessel. Never the vessel. That is the price we pay for our gift. And that is the gift we get for the price we pay. Remember that boy.” Her hand tightens, nails digging so sharply into his skin he knows that there will be marks for days to come. She straightens and then loosens her hold, coming to stand in front of him.

 

“Now, take a deep breath, let go and _Look,_ ” she says with crossed arms, as she gives him another once over. “And throw it again.”

 

***

 

Seven days later, Gwen comes back. She is both shy and eager as she makes her way into the back room, where he unwraps the platter and presents it to her with open hands.

 

“Oh,” she says, covering her mouth. And then “ _Oh_ ” again as she looks at the finished creation. Her colours were surprisingly dark. Earthen browns and umber siennas, a kiss of orange from a clouded dusk lit sky, all of it swirling together in wave upon wave upon wave. But through it all, there is a kiss of greens, soft as grass, deep as emerald, there, cresting in the heart where her lips had laid their kiss.

 

And Gwen, this woman, she is one of the smart ones, the brave ones, who knows not to fear the darkness, and sees in it the calmness of the night, the sleeping dreams of the Oak King.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers with a smile. And then, “Thank you, it’s perfect. Thank you so very much.” And the Potter knows she will be fine.

 

They discuss price then, and she pays. He doesn’t charge her much, only what she can easily afford. He doesn’t need to. He has enough clients who have already paid him plenty of money for his gift. There is a shah, in a distant land, with many wives. He asked for a goblet for his true love. It sits on a shelf in the room of a servant, a man who has been loyal to the shah since their childhood. They cannot be together, not and keep their lives. But once a month, on the night of the full moon, the servant will sip from the goblet, a single golden taste of wine from a bottle left on his bed during the new moon, and he will feel his beloved’s kiss. There is an actress in Hollywood, who will look upon her reflection within a frame, and see not the pouty lips and tightened skin forced on her by a career’s demands, but the beginning of crow’s feet in the corner of her eyes and laugh lines around her mouth, her true beauty shinning through, time’s gift as she matures from ingénue to woman. And there is a doctor, somewhere in the East, who had selected a bookmark. He uses it now to read through the book, the last book, his wife had ever written, so that he can see her heart in the words, and not the heart that his skilled hands failed to save.

 

They have all paid him generously, each and every one of them. And there will be others in the future who do so as well. So he doesn’t need much, and he never asks for more than they can give. And Gwen is one of the special ones.

 

She will serve a simple meal from this platter, knowing that with the right company, even a few spare slices of toast can be a feast. Just like the young mother, who now cries her tears into the small little bowl, but then lets them drip into her garden, where violets bloom the exact blue of her lost child’s eyes. Or the soldier, who fills his mug with water instead of coffee, which washes away the fears, and cleans his soul of its bloodstained memories, so that he can turn around, go back to bed, and sleep for six more dreamless hours. Because from great sorrow, great fear, and even great indecision, beautiful things can come. But only if the user of his wares lets them.

 

He watches her leave with a smile on his face. He cannot make the choice for her. But he knows she will let herself make the right one.

 

Two days later, when a young man walks into his shop, looking for a bit of luck, he sends him on his way. Only a fool asks just for luck, and the bad can come just as easily as the good. He is saving the boy from himself. And he has long since stopped wasting his magic on fools.

 

***

 

“We are the only two left now, you know.” His Mistress says, one night near the end of his apprenticeship. “There are no others.” They are sitting at the back of her house, watching the kiln as it sends its whispers of smoke up into the night.

 

“That’s not true,” he says, running his fingers over the dirt beneath his feet. It is not the right texture for clay, but he still enjoys the feel of it beneath his skin. And it speaks to him as he sits there, telling him about the roots they will embrace, the worms and crawlies whose life they share. “There are others. And magic’s not illegal in Albion anymore. Hasn’t been for over thirty years. It’s starting to come back.”

 

“Pfft.” She says dismissively. “Those little witches and warlocks, with their charms and their potions, casting more for show than anything else. They are nothing more than fireflies, doing their little dance. But you, you are like the sun compared to them. It’s who you are, and all you’ll ever be. Don’t you ever forget that boy.”

 

He doesn’t answer her, just keeps running his fingers over the dirt. And he doesn’t tell her, as they sit there while the night slowly bleeds away, that he loves fireflies and the way they dance in the dark, always searching, always hopeful, that their light will be enough to lead their one true love their way.

 

***

 

It is some time after Gwen’s last visit, as he is pulling his work from the bisque fires, that he hears the door to his shop open. He stops and tilts his head, listening, wondering, waiting for his magic to tell him if this one will find and walk through his second door. But for the first time in his memory, his magic is quiet and still. And it tells him nothing.

 

Then the curtain is parting, and a man is standing in the doorway. He is tall, and strongly muscled, with broad shoulders that for an instant block out the light. And then he is stepping forward, and all the Potter can see is gold and blue. But then the shadows shift and the light fades and the Potter feels his heart sink.

 

The man is wearing the black uniform of the city police, and around his arm is the red band that indicates he is a Knight. The elite of Camelot’s protectors, and once the terrors of the Potter’s kind.

 

Magic has been legal in Albion for over thirty years. But Uther Pendragon, who held the city in his tightened fist, had refused to yield, and claimed that Albion needed at least one refuge from those who carried the taint. It was two decades of fear and terror, homes and shops that were burned in the night. Those that could afford to paid the bribes to keep them and their families safe, until they could no longer afford the tithes. And then they were accused and imprisoned for bribery. It was living with less and less with each passing month, until there was finally nothing left to live for, and then a quick escape in the middle of the night, thrust into his elderly uncle’s arms and a waiting car. His mother and father were brave enough to stay and protect their home. But not foolish enough to risk the life of their only son while doing it. The last he remembers was the turning of their backs to him, as they stood to face the Knights who were marching down their street. He never saw either of them again.

 

Uther Pendragon destroyed thousands of lives in his reign of terror. And no one had been able to stop him. Until his own son had finally turned against him.

 

The story was legend. Of how the son had found his missing sister, locked in a hidden room in the family mansion’s basement, chained to a wall and half mad with starvation. He had freed her, and then called for an ambulance and then the police. There was a picture of the two of them, famous now, of him carrying her to the ambulance, while she clung to him with wide, wild eyes. Apparently she had magic of her own. Uther had not been able to bear the disgust of it, and had tried to torture and starve the magic out of her. _His own daughter_ , the newspapers had cried, and finally, _finally_ , the world had seen. It had been the beginning of the end, a downfall led by his own son, who had been horrified by what he had discovered. Arthur Pendragon never forgave his father for what had been done to his sister, when the rest of the world had already started to understand, to accept, to welcome. And he had led the charge of Camelot’s change.

 

But memories are long, and terrors not easily forgotten. And no one, but especially a magic user, wants to see a Knight on their doorstep. Especially when that Knight is their captain, Arthur Pendragon himself.

 

He watches as Arthur Pendragon takes a long and slow study of his shop’s interior, staring, studying, assessing all of the unglazed pots and vases, cups and teapots, dishes and bowls, until Arthur’s eyes finally land on him and then narrow.

 

“Are you the one they talk about?” he asks, and his voice is cool and even, strangely smooth for a man of his size. “The Potter?”

 

“I am.” He answers, as he lifts his chin. His clothes are dirty, covered in smears of earth and clay, and he knows how he must look to Arthur Pendragon, who stands there in his crisp and sharp uniform of black. But he has worked long and hard to master his craft, and he will feel no shame for the stains of his life’s work. He will not be cowed. And he will not let this man take what is his, not when he has lost so much already to those named Pendragon.

 

But if Arthur Pendragon is offended by his stance, he gives no sign as he continues his study.

 

“And is it true what they say about you?” he asks. “That you have a gift, and that the items that can be bought here can help people find what it is they most need?”

 

“And what if I do?” he answers, lifting his chin even further. “It’s not illegal anymore. Everyone knows that.” There had been riots and more burnings after the discovery of Morgana Pendragon, while Uther tried desperately to hold onto his power, and the rest of the Camelot, the rest of Albion, had cried _enough_. But after years of unrest, peace had finally come to Camelot, and lives began to settle and blend. Yet there are still pockets of hate, and whispers of fear, and some nights it is easier to sleep than others.

 

“Of course they do,” Arthur Pendragon responds, studying him again before his eyes narrow once more. “Is that what you think this is about?” And for the first time, there is something on his face, that implacable mask, that looks surprised.

 

“What else would this be?” The Potter asks, crossing his arms. At this, Arthur Pendragon shakes his head and sighs.

 

“This is me just doing a neighbourhood walk through.” He says, taking another look around. He is looking, the Potter notices, but not touching anything. There must be nothing here that calls to him, nothing that he wants. “I’ve heard a lot about this place lately, and I’ll admit, I was curious. I like to know what’s going on in my city, and to make sure that everyone is safe. Consider this some local outreach, just the police reaching out to get to know everyone on our patrol.”

 

“And that’s all?” He does not believe. Arthur Pendragon is not some local bobby, just stopping by to say hello. The Captain of the Knights has those beneath his command he can send instead, if that’s all this really is.

 

“And that’s all,” Arthur Pendragon says, turning his attention from the shelves to stare at him again. “But don’t worry. You’ll definitely be seeing me again _Mer_ lin. I can promise you that.” He gives him one last nod, before he turns around and is walking out of the shop.

 

Merlin watches him go, and then he sighs, wondering how Arthur Pendragon knows his name, when he never once spoke it aloud.

 

***

 

“So how does it work then? This thing that you do?” It is three days later, and Arthur Pendragon is back, walking into the second room, just as Merlin has finished handing over a wrapped bundle to a woman. She is a mother whose son has asthma. He coughs so badly in the middle of the night and she worries. A week ago, she had chosen a bowl, no larger than the palm of her hand. She is a firefly, with a bit of her own spark. So he knows that she knows that if she gathers the phlegm and in the morning crushes it with something her son loves to eat, it will change the air he breathes, so it no longer chokes him but turns into something that will kiss his lungs soft and sweet. Its colours are brown like cinnamon and green like apples, knitted together like lace, and Merlin’s touch had been gentle as he glazed it. She gives him a grateful smile as she takes it from his hands, and then gives Arthur Pendragon a quick and nervous nod, before she is rushing out of the room and back into the warm sunlit street. The Knight watches her go, a strange cast in his eye, and then he turns back to Merlin with an arched eyebrow. Merlin sighs.

 

“Those who come here, they have a look around, and they find the object that calls to them. Once they do, we bring it over to the counter, and they give me something.”

 

“They give you something?” There is a sharpness to Arthur Pendragon’s voice now, and he is studying Merlin again with a new scrutiny. “And what exactly are you asking for Merlin?”

 

“Nothing much,” Merlin says, knowing this is something he cannot explain, not to someone who has never felt the spark of magic, or the instinct to preserve the balance that runs through all things. “It has to be something only they can give. Sometimes it’s a lock of hair, or an old hairpin from an aunt, or a button from a favourite coat. Nothing much,” he says again. “But it has to be something important. Something only they can give.”

 

“And what did she give you? That woman just now?”

 

“A recipe card from a tin she inherited from her mother. For apple pie.” It was more than a fair trade, and when he _Looked_ , the clay had danced beneath his fingers.

 

“And that’s it? Just some old recipe card?” Arthur Pendragon asks him.

 

“It’s her son’s favourite.” Merlin says. “The bowl she wanted, it’s for him you see.”

 

“Huh,” Arthur Pendragon says, and then he is looking at Merlin again. “And that’s it?”

 

“No,” Merlin says, wondering why he is explaining this to him, to Arthur Pendragon of all people. And then he thinks that maybe it is because no one has ever asked, and it has been such a long time since he has had anyone to talk to about this. Not since he left his Mistress’ workshop. And that was years ago. “And then I give their choice a last look over, looking for any imperfections that I can scrape away. And then I _Look_ again, and start to glaze. I let the glaze dry and then it goes into the kiln one last time, so the glaze can melt. I let it cool, and then I give it a final sanding, and then it is ready for them.”

 

“All of that, for a recipe card?”

 

“I charge them for my work. But never more than they can easily spare.” Merlin lifts his chin as he answers, meeting Arthur Pendragon’s gaze head on. “I do need to eat too you know.”

 

Arthur Pendragon runs his eyes over Merlin’s body then, a very deliberate gaze that leaves him feeling both uncomfortable and indescribably warm at the same time.

 

“Not very much apparently,” he says, once he has completed his study. “Maybe you should start charging them more.”

 

“What?” Merlin is confused by this, and he does not know how to hide that confusion. And then Arthur Pendragon does something he has not done before, in either of their encounters, and he smiles. It changes his face, and reveals a single crooked tooth. It reminds Merlin of the crackling in a glaze, and how those cracks and imperfections can turn something that was already beautiful into something extraordinary.

 

But Arthur Pendragon has already turned away, and is walking through the curtained doorway that leads to the rest of his shop.

 

“Anyway, I was just stopping by on my local rounds,” he says as he waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Have a good day Merlin. You’ll see me again soon.”

 

And Merlin does not doubt it.

 

***

 

“So tell me how this works, if I’m interested in having something made for me.” Arthur Pendragon says as he makes his way into the back room of Merlin’s shop for the third time. Merlin is sitting over his spinner’s wheel, with hands that are wet in preparation for throwing the second bowl in a set off the hump. Merlin sits back and sighs, wiping his wet hands on the towel draped over his thigh.

 

“Do you mind?” he snaps. He was _Looking_ , and the shape was there in his fingertips, waiting for him to free it. But it’s gone now, lost, due to Arthur Pendragon’s interruption.

 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Arthur Pendragon says, leaning against one of the walls as he waves a careless hand in Merlin’s direction. “In fact, do go on. I’m actually quite curious.”

 

“It’s not very interesting to watch.” Merlin squints at him, wanting him to go, to get out, to just leave him alone.

 

“Let me be the judge of that, all right? I’m curious Merlin. Let me watch.” And then Arthur Pendragon is smirking at him, his head cocked to the side. “Unless you’re one of those shy ones, who doesn’t want anyone to see.”

 

“Annoying prat,” he whispers, but he has already rewet his hands, and is leaning in, taking a deep breath, before he closes his eyes, and _Looks_. And then he lets it out, dips his hands again in the water, and places them on the clay.

 

There is a rhythm to it, and a heartbeat. Merlin has to slip between them, into the silence between them both, because it is there, _there,_ that the clay sings to him, and shows him what it needs to be. It is a duet of touch and feel, magic and clay, and he has to slide into its slipstream so that the shapes can form beneath his hands. It is work that is both delicate and grueling, this dance that requires a light touch yet a steady hand. But Merlin spent years training with his Mistress to develop the muscle memory, so that with his breath he can become the doorway for the magic to pour through. He becomes nothing and everything. And then he is centering and throwing and opening, and before he knows it, there are three bowls next to their sister on the shelf, and the door has closed.

 

“That – that was amazing.” Merlin jerks at the sound of Arthur’s voice. He had forgotten he was there while he was the magic. He is so startled that he almost drops the last bowl before he catches himself, and gently lays it on the shelf to dry. Arthur is approaching, and before Merlin has a chance to dip his hands into the water again, and then wipe them dry on his towel, Arthur has taken his chin into his hands, and is staring at him, not as if he is searching, but if he has found something instead. “Did you know that your eyes glow gold when you work?”

 

“I’ve been told, yeah.” Merlin says, pulling his face away. Arthur’s scrutiny is not like the looks his Mistress used to give him. But its difference makes him uncomfortable, if in a different way.

 

Arthur sighs, but then he is reaching down for Merlin’s towel, holding it out for Merlin to take. As Merlin wipes his hands, Arthur takes another look around the room, and then he nods, as if satisfied with what he has seen.

 

“Will these stay back here to wait for someone, or will they go outside with the others?” he asks. And Merlin wonders at the question, at how Arthur knows the difference in his wares. But then he’s looking at the bowls, wondering at them himself, and remembers what they showed him. He had gone deep that time, and the doorway had been wide open, and he knows that he will not have to wait long for someone to come into his back room and give him a gift to use to pick his glazes.

 

“They want to wait,” he murmurs, thinking of a feast, with friends, and a safe space for sorrows to be divided and happiness to be shared.

 

Arthur is nodding again, as if this is the answer he expected. “Thought so,” he says, with another look around. He turns and gives the room one last study, before his eyes land on Merlin and he gives him a small nod of his head. “Make sure you charge whoever comes for them a fair price. They’re definitely worth it, and you do need to eat more after all.”

 

And then he is gone, and Merlin is left staring after him, his wet hands clenched in the towel Arthur had handed him.

 

***

 

“So, how do I go about finding the piece that is waiting for me?” Arthur Pendragon asks, the fourth time he walks through the doorway into Merlin’s workshop.

 

“Aren’t you getting bored by now?” Merlin asks, his hand pressed to the side of his kiln, where his magic makes the fires burn hot and bright. This had been the easiest part of it for Merlin to master, and even his Mistress had been surprised at how quickly the fires came to his call. But Merlin’s magic had always burned within him, and he had learned at his father’s knee how to sing to and sooth it, before he set himself and all that he loved ablaze with his power. “As you can see, I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just a potter in the end, and it can’t be that interesting watching me throw clay.”

 

“We both know that that’s a lie _Mer_ lin,” Arthur Pendragon tuts at him, his arms crossed and his eyebrow arched. But then he sighs and his expression softens. “And I’m not here as Captain Pendragon. I’m here as a client, and there’s something I need. So tell me what to do.”

 

Merlin sighs, and steps away from his kiln. His fires will keep, and the magic will gift him with the right colours, whatever those may be.

 

“Fine,” he says, making his way over to his shelves and his unglazed wares. He throws an arm out, waving it at his pottery. “Just look then. That’s all. Just look. Don’t talk. Don’t think about it too hard. Just look. If there is something here for you, it will call to you. You’ll feel it. And that will be the one that’s meant for you.”

 

“Just like that?” Arthur Pendragon asks.

 

“Just like that.”

 

So Arthur Pendragon turns to the shelves and begins to study their contents. He looks at the cups and the vases, the dishes and the bowls. His eyes run over the platters and the jugs, the tea pots and mugs, and even the urns and the small jewelry boxes that danced beneath Merlin’s fingers just last night. But his eyes never linger, and his gaze never holds. And then he is turning around and looking at Merlin with a small shake of his head.

 

“Nothing?” Merlin asks, although he is not surprised. For what could there be that a man like Arthur Pendragon lacks.

 

“No,” Arthur Pendragon says with a shake of his head. “There is nothing on those shelves, on any of them, that is calling out to me.”

 

“Then there is nothing here for you.” Merlin tells him. “Nothing that you need, and nothing that I can do for you. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

 

“And that’s where you’re wrong _Mer_ lin.” Arthur Pendragon answers. “There is something that I need, very, very badly. And you’re the only one who can give it to me.”

 

“The magic doesn’t lie Arthur,” Merlin is shaking his head. “It knows when there’s something that needs it. If nothing is calling to you, then there’s nothing I can do for you.”

 

Arthur Pendragon hums at his response, and then he is looking at Merlin again. “I don’t think that’s right,” he says, after a long moment of study. “There is something that I need, and that something is something that I think only your magic can help make right. So why don’t you do whatever it is you do with your clay, and take another look. There has to be something there Merlin, you just haven’t seen it yet. You are the Potter after all. And everyone in Camelot knows you’re the best at what you do. So go on, find my shape. It’s got to be in there somewhere.”

 

And with that, Arthur Pendragon turns around and walks out of Merlin’s shop without another word.

 

***

 

That night, Merlin sits in front of his wheel, and looks at the clay that has become nothing in his hands. Three times he has thrown, and three times he has failed. He knows this clay will be useless now; it has nothing to show him, and its promise is lost.

 

“Nothing,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his apron. “There is nothing there.” He sits back, sighs and swipes a forearm over his brow. As he lowers his arm, the light from outside catches a bead of moisture there, and Merlin turns to look through his window.

 

The moon is out, but her face is in shadow. One half perfectly white, one half perfectly black. There is much talk of the power of the full moon, when she is ripe. And the new moon, when she has turned her face away. But even now, when such things no longer need to be whispered about in secret, few seem to remember that it is the balance magic seeks, in all things. There is power in both, but even more power in that thin line that lies between the two.

 

And Merlin knows then that it will have to be tonight.

 

Letting out a breath, he rises from his wheel and takes the shapeless piece of clay in his hands. He puts it back onto a shelf, and gives it a gentle pat. He will work it again, he knows. It tried its best to give him its secrets. But this failure was not its fault, it was his. So he will do his best to give it a gift, turn it into something beautiful, if nothing else, because beauty has a value of its own.

 

But not tonight.

 

He closes his eyes, and doesn’t look, but just lets his hands roam, until he finds another mound of clay. Earth and water, mud and bone dust, this piece will do. It is smaller than the last one, he notes, as he carries it over to his work table so he can wedge it with his hands. Over and over, twist and turn, removing the pockets of air and any unseen striations. He doesn’t think, just does. And when he feels it, feels the clay release a soft sigh that lets him know it is ready, he brings it back to his wheel, and starts again.

 

Water on his hands, the turning of the wheel, he presses his fingers in the clay, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and lets go.

 

He feels it, that door within, opening for him. He slides into its rivers, its whispers, its place between all things. But he doesn’t _Look_. Instead he just remains, steady and still, and just _is_.

 

It is risky, this. Easy to lose oneself in this nothing that is everything. _That is why you must always Look_ , his Mistress had warned him. _Look or all will be lost. You will be lost._ And there was something in her voice he had never heard before. _Fear._ So Merlin had heeded her words, and always, always _Looked_.

 

But he has looked, and not found anything. So instead he sits. And he waits. And he holds.

 

There is nothing there. Nothing that calls to him, or tells him what there needs to be. Instead, what he finds is a memory, from all of those years ago, of a goblet and a wedding, and a price he was told he had to pay.

 

 _Prices_ , he thinks as he watches his younger self, hunched over the wheel, spinning, spinning, always spinning. There is always a price for magic. Always a price for everything.

 

 _But_ , he thinks as he watches his Mistress circle him, as she lifts her hand to place it upon his neck, _it is never more than what they can spare. Never more than what they are willing to give. And I never wanted to give this._

 

It all stops then. The throwing, the centering, the spinning, spinning, spinning. And Merlin is no longer remembering, no longer _Looking_. Instead he _Sees_.

 

And what he sees is _Everything_.

 

***

 

His Mistress always tells the truth.

 

But his Mistress, Aithusa, also always, always lies.

 

***

 

He comes to then, and beneath his hands is a goblet. No, not a goblet. Its stem is too thick, and it’s bowl too wide for wine to be delicately sipped from. It is coarse, but sturdy and strong, and as he studies it, he sees it for what it is. Not a wine glass, not stemware, but a chalice, bold as it sits there on his now still wheel.

 

He does not remember making it, of the feel of shaping it beneath his hands. But as he reaches for it with gentle but steady fingers, it gives him its voice. It says only one thing to him, tells him only one word.

 

 _Mine_ , it whispers.

 

But it is more than enough.

 

***

 

“So,” Arthur says as he takes another slow look around Merlin’s shop. “Is it here then? Have you made it yet?”

 

Merlin rolls his eyes from where he stands behind the counter, making a notation in his log book for the salt and pepper shakers he has just sold to a young father, who will gift them to his little girl. She loves animals, and the salt and the pepper will teach her that their love can add flavour to a life, but also burn a bit if not handled with care. He thinks it was a lovely choice.

 

“You know that’s up to you,” he answers in a dismissive voice. “Take a look around and see if anything catches your eye.” He is being nonchalant, pretending not to care, when inside of him, he wonders and worries and fears. Arthur hums again, and starts a long, slow perusal, looking over the shelves.

 

It has been three days since his last visit, and Merlin has thrown and bisqued several items since then. More bowls, an ashtray, even another picture frame. He has placed them all carefully around his shop, where he hopes they will catch the right eye. Hopefully it will be enough to distract Arthur, and he will find something pretty but voiceless, and Merlin can send him on his way.

 

So he should not be surprised when Arthur cocks his head, and turns, bending over to a bottom shelf, where Merlin has hidden the chalice, behind a jug and a vase, hoping to keep it from sight.

 

“Ah,” Arthur says softly, and his voice sounds strangely satisfied. “There you are.” And then he is reaching forward, past the vase and the jug, and taking the chalice into his hands. Merlin’s heart is racing and his palms are damp as Arthur carefully carries the chalice over to him, and places it gently on the counter between them.

 

Merlin looks at the chalice, and then back at Arthur. “Are you – Are you sure that’s the right piece?” he asks. Because the chalice is his, not Arthur’s. And this cannot be. He will not lose this again, not when he only just got it back. It was something taken from him, not a gift freely given, and he wants to keep it safe.

 

But that is not how this works. And even he knows that.

 

“Yes _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says. “I am absolutely sure. This is exactly what I need. I knew you could do it.”

 

Merlin looks at the chalice, at the naked clay that he had smoothed beneath his fingers, and then back up at Arthur, who is smiling at him now.

 

“All right,” he says, and then again, “All right.”

 

“Now I have to give you something,” Arthur says. “Something important. But something only I can give. That’s how this works, yes?”

 

“Yes,” Merlin says, and he is already mourning. He should have known to never trust a Pendragon. Pendragons take. And Pendragons destroy. They do not understand the balance. And they cannot see its beauty within.

 

But then Arthur is leaning forward, and he is pressing his lips to Merlin’s, in a kiss that is soft and sweet.

 

“There Merlin,” he says as he leans back. “There is my payment. Something important. But something just as freely given. Now give me my colours. I’ll be back in a week.”

 

And then he is gone.

 

***

 

Aithusa is white. Skin paler than moonlight, long hair as blanched as bone, nails the colour of ice. She wears a white dress as she watches him, and white heels that click against the floor as she paces while he works. White, white, white.

 

And Merlin hates the colour white.

 

***

 

Seven days later, Merlin is standing in front of his kiln, pulling out the bricks that keep in the smoke, to reach for the treasure inside.

 

His own fires had burned hot and fast, and he could feel the lightning, the solar flaring of it while they did. But also the kiss of a firefly, glowing softly in the night, as it called out into the darkness, _Find me, Find me, I am here_ and _I am waiting for you_.

 

He lifts the out the chalice with his tongs, and lays it carefully on his work table. It is cool enough to be touched, but he wants to give it, to give himself, a moment, before he lays his hands upon it to reveal the final result.

 

He pauses then, to take a breath, and then another, before he reaches for his rag to brush away the ash, and reveal the colours beneath.

 

Merlin has always loved colours, and it is his glazes that have marked him as a master. But what he sees before him leaves even his experienced eyes wide in shock.

 

For it is a symphony, a tsunami, a thundering storm. Blues and reds and golds, dancing together in the cradle of the cup, swirling like fireflies along its stem. The blue of a summer sky and the indigo of a midnight sea, the red of blood and the crimson of his fires, the gold of blond hair in the sunlight and the swelling of his own magic in his eyes. It is a cave, and a doorway. A place to walk through and the comfort of a safe destination at the end of too long a journey. It is not perfect. There are cracks where the colours have bled through. Jagged edges that need to be smoothed. Torn webbing that hangs empty into spaces where it shouldn’t be. But the bleeding and the edges and the tearings have only made something that is imperfect that much more beautiful, and in it he can see the whole.

 

“Oh,” he whispers, shocked, as he slowly reaches out a fingertip to stroke the rim. And then “ _Oh_ ” again, but this time in despair when the entire chalice cracks beneath his hands. “No, no, _no_.” He wants to cry, he is crying, as he looks at what was his greatest masterpiece, nothing more than shards of clay and broken pottery on his floor. And he knows then that his Mistress was right, that there is always a price to pay, and that this will never be his.

 

“Foolish man.”

 

He turns and through tear filled eyes sees Arthur Pendragon once again standing in his doorway. And he hates him then. Hates him for giving him this gift, only to have it taken away.

 

But Arthur’s gaze is kind, and his expression soft as he uncrosses his arms and slowly makes his way over to where Merlin crouches on the floor. He kneels down and takes Merlin’s hands in his own, where together they cradle the broken shards of pottery, the pieces of Merlin’s heart.

 

“Foolish man,” Arthur says again, looking up into Merlin’s eyes. “Did you think that there was any bowl, any cup, big enough to hold the both of us?”

 

“But – “ Merlin stammers, and he is just Merlin now, not the Potter, not the apprentice, and not the sun that burns out all of the summer’s fireflies. Just Merlin, as lost and alone as he had been the first time he stumbled over Aithusa’s threshold. “But…”

 

“You _Look_ , but you never see Merlin. Never _See_.” Arthur says, lifting Merlin’s hands to his lips, where he lays a kiss that is reverent and gentle. “I’ve been watching you for months Merlin, months, waiting for you to notice me. But you never did. You never saw me, until the day I finally walked through your door.”

 

“But – “ Merlin stammers yet again. “But the price Arthur, the _price_. There is always a price. Always.”

 

“Foolish man.” Arthur repeats. “Love has no price. It is its own gift, and its own reward. Freely given, and it asks for nothing in return. You, of all people, should remember that.”

 

And then Arthur Pendragon leans forwards, and presses his lips to Merlin’s for the second, but not the last, time.

 

***

 

Merlin brings Arthur home with him that night, to the small flat he keeps above his studio. And it is there that Merlin gives himself over to Arthur’s hands. And Arthur’s hands, they press and they tighten. They clench and they smooth. But they do not shape. They never shape. They cup and they cradle. They sooth and they stoke. And within their palms, Merlin is held safe.

 

Their colours are red and gold and blue, always blue. And Merlin sees them as they burn. But not with fire. Only love. And that is a price that Merlin is more than willing to pay.

 

***

 

They talk that night, after. Where Arthur tells Merlin of his sister Morgana, and how she has now found her peace in the arms of a woman who is both brave and intuitive. Of how she can finally breathe again when sharing a meal from a platter that is brown and sienna and orange, but laced with green, always green.

 

“Gwen?” Merlin asks, and he is not surprised. Pleased but not surprised.

 

“Hmmm,” Arthur agrees as he lays another soft kiss to the nape of Merlin’s neck.

 

But then Arthur tells him more, not only about the night he found his sister, in a room whose chains and shite stained walls still haunt him, but what else he found in a small oubliette behind yet another hidden door.

 

“There were books Merlin, hundreds and hundreds of books.” He says. “Books of spells and grimoires and histories, so much of who we were, what we had that was lost. And I gave them all back, I gave them back to the Druids and the Libraries, because all of that knowledge, all of that history, shouldn’t have been stolen.” And Merlin knows this. He remembers reading the stories in the newspapers, and seeing the pictures on the television.

 

Except for one, Arthur tells him. One book that was faded and torn, hidden beneath all of the others. A translation of a translation of a translation, Arthur explains. The journal of a King, who was legend now. But in this journal was a truth long hidden, a myth long forgotten. For this King loved not a Queen, but a Sorcerer, the greatest Sorcerer of all time. And in this journal, of faded and yellowing pages, that crackled and creaked beneath Arthur’s fingers, the King mourned. Because he loved this man, this Sorcerer, and he could already see the way history was twisting around them, forgetting this love, when it was the Sorcerer, a man who lived his life as a simple Potter, who was the source of all of the King’s strength, his wisdom, his power. And the King who was nothing more than the vessel, the chalice, that kept the Sorcerer’s heart safe.

 

“It was how I knew I had to find you, Beloved.” Arthur finishes, as he lays one last kiss to his own Potter’s throat. “I just had to get you to _See_.”

 

 “Hmmm,” it is Merlin’s turn to hum now, as he rolls into Arthur’s arms and presses his ear against a heartbeat that burns stronger than any fire, but is easier than any slipstream for him to slip within. And “hmmm” again, as he loses himself in that easy, gentle rhythm, and lets Arthur rock him in his arms, until they both fall asleep.

 

***

 

Aithusa is standing outside in his small garden the next morning, as he walks from the upstairs flat towards the studio’s door beneath. She is in white, white dress, white coat, white boots that reach her knees, and her hair blows around her like a blizzard, threatening to blind him in the sunlight.

 

“ _Fool_ ,” she hisses at him through clenched teeth. “I taught you the craft, and helped you shape your gift, and this is what you do with it? Did I not tell you, over and over and over again, that there was a price? All of my knowledge, all of my effort, and this is what you do with the gift?”

 

But Merlin can _See_ now, and he will never forget.

 

Because Aithusa always tells the truth.

 

But Aithusa, who is no longer his Mistress, also always, always lies.

 

“That was your price to pay,” he tells her. “But it was never mine. And it will never be mine. Never again.”

 

“Stupid boy,” she snarls again, looking as if she is getting ready to strike.

 

But then there is a King behind him, and a presence stronger, more steady, more safe than any cup or chalice could ever be.

 

“Leave this place Aithusa,” Arthur says, giving Merlin’s former Mistress a long, slow steady look. “Find your Lady if you can. My sister Morgana, she is waiting for you. Pay your price for not answering her call when she needed you, and maybe she will give you your colours back.”

 

She disappears then, with the wind, in a last puff of white smoke.

 

***

 

So the Potter goes back to work. He sits over his wheel, and he spins and he throws and he centers and he opens.

 

Those that need him can still find him. And if they can’t, if even they are too lost, sometimes they are sent on their way by a Knight with a band of red around his arm, who was once a King. The Potter always welcomes them, and he always asks for a price. Something only they can give, but nothing more than they can freely pay.

 

And at night, his King comes for him, and together they blend their bodies and their colours in a dance of fireflies that call to each other in the dark.

 

They have no cup, no vase, no bowl. Instead there are shards from the chalice, held at the base of their throats by a leather thong. So they both can _See_ , and remember, that their love is too big, too bright, too colourful for any vessel to hold.

 

And this price, which is not a price, but a gift, and one that is freely given, is one Merlin is more than willing to pay.

 

FIN


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